‘Cheer up,’ said Oliver, handing Zander and Bea halves of bitter. He never drank alcohol when he was driving. ‘And listen up, for do I have a tale to tell! There’s no shop in the village unfortunately, but down the road I spotted a woman struggling to put up a trestle table outside her front gate. Naturally I went to her assistance, being the kind, courteous soul that I am.’
Zander attempted a smile, and Bea did the same.
‘She was selling plants and windfall apples, which I helped her to barrow from the garden at the back and to arrange on the table. I bought some of her apples, and she offered me a cuppa. I said she was the light of my life, so she brought me out a mug of some peculiar brew which she claimed was coffee but might have been tea. I couldn’t tell which it was but, never mind, I drank it. I told her I was hanging around waiting for my boss to return the Lord of the Manor’s effects to his widow. She straightened up like she’d been ramrodded and went all tight-lipped on me. But then curiosity got the better of her, and she unbuttoned.’
‘Mixed metaphors,’ said Zander, with a better attempt at a smile.
‘So what? Did I get the low-down, or did I? My informant has lived in the village all her life, and her father and mother before her down to the twentieth generation, or so she said. Mr Faulks-Pennington – or whatever his name was—’
‘Near enough,’ said Zander. ‘The Honourable—’
‘She said he should have been called “Dishonourable”, but apparently he did have some title or other. He bought the old manor house for his wife some ten years ago. It was a complete wreck, and they’ve been doing it up ever since. His wife boasts that her family once lived there, though my informant begs leave to doubt that. I’m not sure why. Apparently the Lady of the Manor was married before, perhaps to someone else with a title? However it was, she kept the title when she remarried and insists on being addressed as “Lady Honoria”, or “my lady”. My informant pulled a sour face when she mentioned this.’
The food came. Delicious. Bea was, indeed, hungry. ‘Hold on a minute. She asked us – no, ordered us – to address her as “Lady Honoria” which means she must be the daughter of a duke, a marquess or an earl. Denzil must have been the younger son of a nobleman too, if he claimed to be an Honourable.’
‘My informant says that she’s Lady Muck, and no one calls her anything else behind her back though to her face they’re polite enough. She’s pure poison, they say.’
Zander grunted. ‘She is that.’
‘And, wait for it,’ Oliver reached the climax of his story, ‘they all think she murdered him.’
‘What?’ said Bea.
Zander shook his head. ‘Oh, come on!’
Bea was indulgent. ‘Oliver loves a good murder.’
‘No, no!’ said Oliver, waving his hands about. ‘You haven’t heard the rest of it. They say he was a miserable creature, totally under her thumb—’
‘I can believe that,’ said Zander. ‘He threw his weight about at work, but no, he wouldn’t have lasted two rounds with her. She’s a heavyweight.’
‘So he came down here to the pub every night to drown his sorrows. Zander; you might be sitting in the very place he used to occupy, night after night, with the two dogs under his feet.’
Zander’s arm jerked, and he looked around as if expecting his old boss to appear and turf him out of his chair.
‘And,’ said Oliver, ‘he was supposed to be having an affair with one of the barmaids here.’
Zander and Bea both craned their heads to see who was serving drinks at the bar. A big, pot-bellied man, and a woman of perhaps forty, dressed like a teenager in an off-the-shoulder, skimpy T-shirt and very tight, low-slung jeans. A lot of lipstick, a lot of eye make-up, and not much chin. A laugh to frighten.
Zander and Oliver both looked at Bea, and she looked back at them. She shook her head. ‘Don’t even think it. Oliver is letting his imagination run away with him. By all accounts the Honourable Denzil was an unpleasant man to work for, and we’ve seen today that she’s no better. He’s dead, rest his soul, and we have to move on. Zander has to make up his mind whether to continue working for her or not—’
‘I think not,’ said Zander, setting down his empty glass. ‘Life’s too short.’
Bea reminded him, ‘You could get her under the Race Relations Act. I could be your witness.’
He shook his head. ‘I might get compensation, but it would mean going through a court case, and I’d still lose my job. One way or another, whistle-blowers lose out.’
Bea got to her feet. ‘Well, I’m fresh out of ideas. Suppose we have a coffee, and then make our way back. Order one for me, will you, Oliver, while I go to the loo?’
She felt bleak. Yes, some part of her agreed with Oliver that something was very wrong at the Trust, but there didn’t seem to be anything obvious that they could do about it. She agreed with Zander that he ought to get out of there, but . . . If only God had given her some idea of what to do or say . . . but he hadn’t. So she might as well call it a day.
She had to duck her head under a low lintel to get into the ladies, and once there she had to edge her way round a young girl who was hogging the washbasin. And crying, while trying to bathe an eye that was rapidly developing into a shiner.
‘Oh, my dear,’ said Bea. ‘Are you all right? Silly question, of course you’re not. Can I fetch someone for you?’
The girl shook her head. Yellow hair all over the place in bird’s nest fashion, pouting lips, too much make-up, too much flesh showing, a pretty bust. Very young.
‘Don’t fetch no one. He’s gone and good riddance. What am I going to do? Me mum’ll kill me.’
‘I’m sure she won’t. Here, let me look.’
One eye painted like a panda, one partially cleaned of make-up, the eyelid reddened and swelling. Bea sat the girl down on a stool and finished bathing the afflicted eye.
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
A lie. Possibly seventeen? Possibly even younger.
The girl sniffed. ‘Like, I didn’t think he’d go off and leave me. How ever am I to get home now?’
‘Perhaps he’s waiting for you outside, to apologize.’
‘Not him. Went off on the bike, sticking his fingers up.’ She looked in the mirror and howled. ‘Whatever do I look like? And I haven’t got me eyelash curlers with me. I can’t face everyone like this, can I? And me mum’ll kill me.’
‘Best wash the whole lot off, then.’ Bea cleaned the girl’s face as tenderly as she could. Without make-up the girl looked even younger. ‘Where do you live? If it’s not too far away, perhaps I could give you a lift home.’
‘Over the hill. If I’d known he was going to walk out on me, like, I’d have worn me ballerinas.’
She was wearing four-inch, spiky heeled sandals. Her toes and heels were already chapped and rubbed raw. Her toenails had been painted black, as were her bitten fingernails. All chipped. She was a mess.
Bea said, ‘You live up by the manor house? We were there this morning, taking some stuff back belonging to the owner.’
‘Like, you’re having me on, aren’t you? Me mum cleans for the old witch, twice a week. Can’t please her, not anyhow. Last week Her Highness wanted to dock Mum’s wages, and they had a right old to-do. She says Mum was spying on her, but she was only looking for his cigarettes, which he always used to let her have a couple, but that was before he copped it. Mum reckons she’s so tight with money she’d steal the tartar off your teeth, if she could.’
‘You knew them both?’
‘Everyone knows them. Poor old git! I quite liked him. And if he wanted the odd fumble, then it was only to be expected, like, seeing as they’ve always slept separate, though I can’t say I’d have gone that far with him.’
‘Er, no. So you knew him quite well?’
A shrug. ‘Randy old goat. Hands up your skirt soon as look at you, breath like a distillery, but give him his due, he always paid his way.’
; ‘How?’ Though Bea could guess.
‘How d’you think? Like, half an hour’s chat and a hand on your knee, and it’s a fiver. An hour or so and a cuddle, it’s ten. A couple of kisses and a hand up your bra in his car, and it’s fifteen. It helped the cash flow, didn’t it? He used to come down here every night, twice at weekends. My boyfriend that was, has a part-time job here, helping in the bar, washing up and that, so I often come in on my way home from—’
Was she going to say ‘from school?’ But she went on with hardly a second’s pause.
‘Work. A friend lives in the village and gives me a lift here and then I wait for Tony – that’s me boyfriend that was – to take me home when he’s finished.’
‘He didn’t mind your flirting with an older man?’
A shrug. ‘We shared the takings. Why not? Only today Tony said I should be nice to another old gent that’s been eyeing me up, but I couldn’t. He stinks, see. Yuk! Tony argued with me, saying he’d promised the old man I’d give him a cuddle, and he took me outside and walloped me one when I wouldn’t, and then he got on his bike and went off and left me. And Pat – that’s the landlord – he’s going to be livid, being left in the lurch like that. And he’s going to ban me for being under . . . for being Tony’s girl, and me mum’s going to kill me!’
Bea bit back distaste. Didn’t the girl realize she’d been on the slippery path to prostitution? ‘Maybe your mum’s right, and you could be making better use of your time.’
The girl wriggled, pushing up her bust. ‘Homework, you mean? I should be so dodo. I know what assets I got, and they’re right here, in front. They’re what gets me a coupla drinks and some tips. What have I got to look forward to, otherwise? Sitting at a checkout in a supermarket all day? That’s what Mum used to do till she got fed up with it and went on to shelf-filling and a couple of cleaning jobs, and if that’s all that’s coming to me, then I’ll take my fun where I can, thank you very much. Now,’ she got up, fluffing up her hair in the mirror, ‘how about that lift, then?’
‘Give me five minutes to drink my coffee, and meet me in the car park.’
When they met up in the car park, the girl looked at the men, who reacted as if they’d been given an electric shock. They recognized what this girl was, far more quickly than Bea had done.
It turned out that Kylie lived not far off their route back to London. Bea suggested that Kylie sit in the back with her. Kylie wasn’t too happy about this. She dismissed Oliver after one coquettish glance, but tipped her hip at Zander and moistened her lips, giving him what she thought was a provocative smile. When he failed to respond, she got into the car and slammed the door, saying it was a nice car but not exactly new, was it?
Bea decided to ignored that. ‘So, Kylie, what did you think when you heard the old man had upped and died?’
A grimace. ‘I was sorry, a bit. Most people thought it was funny like, joking that she’d frightened him to death. Pat, the landlord, he said she could frighten for England. Poor old Dishonourable. Always on about his heart, taking pills, wouldn’t walk further than from the car park to the bar, made the dogs run behind his car to give them their exercise, which he shouldn’t have done on these roads, it’s dangerous, we all said so. But he wasn’t going to listen, was he! Not him! Not the Dishonourable.’
‘Was his heart that bad?’
Another shrug. ‘He was supposed to be having some operation or other, but it got put off for some reason. Money, I expect. She spends every penny she can get on that old wreck of a house.’ She pulled a mirror out of her handbag and yelped. ‘What on earth do I look like? If I get in before Mum, I can put some more slap on, and maybe she won’t notice. She’ll kill me when she finds out I’ve busted up with Tony.’
‘Don’t tell me; you divide your takings three ways? Tony, your mum, and you?’
‘I have to be nice to Pat, as well.’ The girl humped a shoulder. ‘What’s it to you? And you can drop me off here, like it’s only just round the corner, and I don’t want no questions about why I’m coming home in a big car with no money to show for it. Er, you couldn’t spring to a fiver, could you?’
Bea took one of her business cards and a tenner out of her handbag and held it up. ‘I’m collecting information about the people at the Manor. If you think of anything more, or your mother has anything to say, would you give me a ring? It will be on a business footing, you understand? Payment by return of post.’
Kylie snatched the money without making any promises and got herself out of the car. All three watched her rump twitching up and down as she minced her way out of sight. Neither man commented. Bea felt like saying a whole lot of stuff about poverty and education and the unnecessarily hopeless view of life taken by some, but got tangled up in so many conflicting thoughts that she kept silent.
Oliver drove smoothly off, taking them back to London by the quickest route.
Saturday evening
Bea paced up and down the garden. Surely she’d soon be tired enough to sleep. Across the back of the house she strode, between the huge pots which Maggie had planted up with Busy Lizzies, petunias and geraniums. Past the ironwork staircase that curled up to the kitchen on the first floor . . . along the flagstones to where a garden shed crouched in the shadow of the brick wall . . . across the garden to the sycamore, where the folding chairs sat neglected . . . and back again to the house.
Again. And again. Like a squirrel in a cage.
Or a hamster, maybe.
The phone rang several times, but she ignored it. The house was silent above her since both the youngsters had gone out for the evening.
She paused mid-stride. Some of these old houses had once had wells in their back gardens. In its growth from prehistoric village to today’s megalopolis – if that was the right term – the originally swampy ground had been drained by many small rivers all leading down to the Thames; rivers such as the Fleet which had subsequently been built over and forgotten. Many of the gardens around had once had their own well, used for drinking water as well as everything else. Unsanitary, but pretty.
She liked the idea of a well in her back garden. Something in soft red-brick, built up to hip height, with a lead canopy over it, held up by wrought ironwork. Charming. And of course, offering a neat solution to grief.
That is, if there’d been any water in the bottom of the imaginary well, which there might not have been, in that dry summer.
She pulled her thoughts back from the darkness in which they wanted to dwell and went into her office to switch on her computer.
Zander had decided he couldn’t work for Lady Honoria.
Bea sympathized. She wouldn’t have liked to work for her, either. On Monday Oliver would see if there was anything suitable for Zander in their books. Probably not, but you never knew. Jobs for office managers were not precisely their field. Bea had volunteered to ask if her busy Member of Parliament son might know of an opening for him.
Something Oliver had said was bothering her.
Over the years the agency had found staff for clients of all sorts and sizes, titled and otherwise. Hamilton had made Bea learn how to address their clients in the manner to which they were accustomed. Granted, they were more likely to be asked to find a butler for one of the embassies that proliferated in Kensington, than to provide staff for a prince in a palace. She’d probably misunderstood what she’d heard. But it did no harm to check, did it? And the longer she occupied her mind with something downstairs, the less time she had to pace up and down her bedroom, sleepless hour after hour.
There were some amusing sites on the Internet, offering to sell you a lordship or a title for peanuts. All scams, of course.
She found the site she was after at last; it was pretty comprehensive, but it didn’t entirely answer the question that was hovering at the back of her mind.
Was Honoria really entitled to call herself Lady Honoria? Surely only the children of the top echelons of society had that right? Unless, of course, her husband was a knight. But t
he Honourable Denzil had not been a ‘sir’, or someone would have mentioned it. Honoria might well be exactly what she claimed to be, the daughter of a duke or an earl, but somehow Bea doubted it.
She had no good reason to doubt it.
Except – Roquefort. Strong cheese.
She sighed, exited the site.
It was still only half past nine. Her eyelids were stiff, her legs were tired, but her brain was going round and round and . . .
She delved into her handbag. Somewhere she’d kept a business card for a certain Mr Cambridge, the father of a school friend of Oliver’s. Oliver had a knack of making friends of all ages, and this Mr Cambridge had not only taught him a whole load of tricks to use on computers – which Bea suspected might not be entirely legal – but had also instituted himself as something of a guru in Oliver’s life.
She dialled, hesitated, cut the line. The answer phone light was winking, indicating three missed calls. She ignored them.
Who was Mr Cambridge, exactly? Oliver had said he was an expert called in by the police on occasion. ‘Occasion’ not specified.
He’d looked old enough to be the grandfather, rather than the father, of Oliver’s schoolfriend, but he’d certainly known how to summon the right policeman to sort out a nasty case of murder in which Bea had been involved some time ago.
She’d kept his card, thinking she would never want to use it, but he was the only person she could think of who might be willing to listen to a moan about a bully of a woman, injustice and racial prejudice. He’d said that if ever she wanted to talk over a tricky case, he’d always find time to listen.
She dialled again, and this time let the call go through.
‘Mr Cambridge? Bea Abbot here. I wonder if you remember—’
‘Most clearly. You unravelled a tangled ball of wool with great skill some time ago. How may I be of assistance?’
She was already regretting the impulse which had led her to call him. ‘It’s nothing, really. I can’t see that anyone can do anything, but . . .’ She tried for a laugh. ‘I hate injustice, and I think you do, too.’ Should she tell him? He had offered to listen any time she wanted to talk, but had he meant it? Well, she’d try him and see what happened. ‘Could you spare me ten minutes while I rant away about something? You don’t need to take any action afterwards.’
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